


The Games We Play

by rehaniah



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: (I love Bran ;)), Annoyed Bran, Arrogant Bran, F/M, Playful Hawke, Rare Pair, Snarky Bran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:11:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5205401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rehaniah/pseuds/rehaniah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke seeks out Seneschal Bran in order to let him in on a very... <i> interesting </i> story she heard. A story regarding a certain guest who's been seen at The Blooming Rose...</p><p>(Basically, I just wanted to see snarky!Bran being snarky and Hawke being, well, Hawke ;))</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Games We Play

“Seneschal Bran!” Hawke greets as she strides unannounced into the small office.

From behind the document loaded desk bronze-hued eyes glance up for the briefest of moments.

“Champion.” The designation rolls off his tongue as more of a dispirited insult than a greeting.

In direct contrast, Hawke’s own voice resounds with exuberant –one might almost say _too_ exuberant– enthusiasm. “How’s my favourite parchment-pusher doing these days?”

The austere gaze doesn’t even flicker in response to the less-than-subtle jibe. All she receives is a put-upon sigh and a refocused attention on the papers set out in front of him.

Utterly undeterred, Hawke sidles around to the other side of the desk, plopping herself down atop the corner nearest the smartly-garbed man.

The chestnut-haired head half-turns at her action. When she gives no indication of moving away, blatantly reluctant eyes slide their way back up to her face.

“Was there something you required of me, Champion? Or am I to take it that you would like to add my desk to the list of Kirkwall’s assets that you deem worthy of your ownership?”

Hawke tsks in amusement. “Really, Seneschal Bran,” she chides. “Can’t a girl just come and see you without you making insulting accusations as to her motives?” She then runs a hand along the wooden surface beneath her, adding as an afterthought, “Although it _is_ a very nice desk.”

With a long-suffering air the quill is dropped down onto the parchment, allowing long-fingered hands to interlace themselves together in front of him as the seneschal leans back to focus his attention completely on his ‘guest’, thus creating a picture of perfectly bored, perfectly begrudging expectation.

The question leaves his lips like an indolent exhale. “What is it that you _want_ , Champion?”

Hawke merely gives a carefree grin. This immediately resulted in Bran frowning, a wary look rising into his eyes as they narrowed in suspicion.

“Oh really, Seneschal,” Hawke chides again, before cocking her head towards his. “I only wanted to tell you an interesting story.”

She makes her offer sound as if should be the very height of interest to him.

Bran’s response, however, is anything but interested.

“I do not have time for stories,” is the stern reply before the discarded quill is resolutely snatched back up. The sound of a nib scratching parchment resumes as Hawke’s presence is pointedly ignored.

“Well now, that’s a shame,” she continues with excessive-sounding disappointment, leaning even closer so as to practically purr into his ear. “Because I _really_ think it’ll be one that interests you.”

Another irritated sigh resounds, before the quill is reluctantly tossed aside once more. “Very well, Champion,” the seneschal says, with no short supply of annoyance-laden disdain. “If I agree to listen to your, without doubt, unconscionably fascinating tale, will you leave me to my work?”

“Hmm,” Hawke leans back to drum fingertips against her chin in a showy pretence of thoughtful contemplation, before proclaiming magnanimously: “Yes, I think I will.”

“How wonderful,” is her audience’s entirely lacklustre response. A listless hand is subsequently waved in the young woman’s direction. “Then please, do elucidate me on this story that you feel would so thrill me to hear.”

Hawke’s grin speaks of triumph –and not a little slyness– at the begrudging capitulation. But before Bran has time to think on it, she has buoyantly hopped off the desk and onto the marble floor, walking round to the front of the desk in order to strike a pose reminiscent a narrator taking centre stage. The final touch is the way her hands gesticulate emphatically as she begins to speak.

“Well, it all began because my friend Varric – you know Varric, right?” Hawke pauses to send a sidelong glance in the seneschal’s direction (even though they both knew perfectly well that he was, at the very least, acquainted with the ragtag band of questionable characters she paraded through the Keep with on a regular basis).

“Master Tethras, yes. I believe I’ve had the pleasure.” The tone employed makes the word ‘pleasure’ sound like it had scales and a tail.

With blithe inattention on that fact, Hawke continues. “Good. Right. So, Varric has this friend, you see, who he’s been trying to get me to meet for, well, at least the past three years.”

“How astonishing,” is the interjecting drawl, voiced as Bran begins peering down at his finely manicured nails.  

Ignoring the interruption, Hawke gamely soldiers on. “But the truth is that I’ve always been a bit unsure about this particular friend because, well,” she gives a short laugh, “there are dodgy people and then there are dodgy people – you know what I mean?” She wheels round to stare expectantly in the seneschal’s direction once more.

“Indubitably,” he concurs, with all the attentiveness of a sleep walker, following it up with the inquiry: “Exactly which part of all this was I supposed to be finding remotely worthy of my time?”  

Hawke waves away his concerns. “Oh, don’t worry, we’re coming to that,” she assures. “ _So_ , Varric finally talked me into meeting his friend but as it turned out the only place where we could actually meet up was in The Blooming Rose.”

“Is that so?” The seneschal’s stare is the embodiment of apathy. “May I enquire as to how much longer this breathtakingly arresting tale is going to take; for fear that if it takes much longer I will have to dispatch notifications to my next of kin regarding my imminent demise through sheer uncontrolled enthusiasm.”

Hawke waves him away again, continuing indefatigably. “So, since there was nothing else for it, we arranged to meet at The Blooming Rose. This was rather– hmm, how should I put it,” she makes a show of contemplation before resuming, “ _inconvenient_ for me since, whilst I have no issue whatsoever with those who choose to make their living using the world’s oldest profession, I’m sure you can appreciate how such a delicate and retiring innocent as myself might feel a little… _uncomfortable_ in such an establishment.”

The amount of pseudo guilelessness she heaps into the look she directs towards him is undermined, quite heavily, by the mischievous grin pulling determinedly at the corners of her mouth – but she hurries on before Bran can comment on either.

“And since I ran into Gamlen that one time, well…” This statement is imparted with a far more authentic sincerity, as was the disturbed shudder that followed it.

The unpleasant memory seemed to distract her, so that when she reopened her mouth, it was with a frown. “Anyway, where was I?” she asks to the world at large.

“About to get to the point – I’m praying,” is Bran’s contribution.

Responding as though he’d actually said something remotely courteous she resumes. “Oh yes. Right. Well, there I was at The Blooming Rose, waiting on Varric’s friend to show his face – Varric had suddenly had to sort out something with the Merchant’s Guild so he hadn’t been able to make it–”

“A tragedy of monumental proportions, I’m sure.”

“ _Anyway_ , I was sat at one of the tables, waiting for this guy to show up, and trying not to look too closely at what the couple on the table next to me seemed to be doing, when suddenly I feel someone tap me on the shoulder. So I turn round and guess what I see?”

“Perchance the end of this conversation?”

“No,” she says, wagging a reproaching finger (complete with mucky fingernail) in his direction. “I saw a woman who looked _exactly like me_! Honest to Maker, it was like looking into a mirror – okay, a slightly older, slightly slimmer mirror, but even so, it was uncanny!”

It was only during the telling of this latest part of the anecdote that Bran’s form had rapidly become much stiller. Not in such a way that one would notice it, unless one were looking very, very closely, but stiller nonetheless, and buried deep within the depths of his eyes now rose a very careful attentiveness, hidden almost flawlessly by the habitual veil of bored aloofness.

To his credit, Hawke appears not to notice anything amiss as she continues animatedly. “Yeah, she’d obviously had her hair colored like mine, and had painted her eyes to make them look kinda slant-y, you know like mine are. And, get this: she’d even drawn a scar on her cheek – I know it was drawn because it was smudged a bit, but it was just like this one!” She swivels round to thrust her right cheek in his direction, moving her forefinger to point to the very obvious scar stretching from below her ear to just past her jawline; obviously a remainder of some skirmish, long since passed. “Isn’t that crazy?!” she exclaims, peering over at him in anticipation.

The manner of Bran’s response is as in-keeping with his previous ones as it was possible to be.

“Yes, that certainly is outstandingly… ‘crazy’,” he agrees, even though his distaste for her choice of terminology causes him to say it with a distasteful twist to his lips. “However, I fail to see what any of this _fascinating_ _information_ has to do with me.”

His voice is the epitome of bland, his bronze stare meeting hers steadily whilst asserting his complete unknowing.

For her part, Hawke remains merrily caught up in her recital, even if her own gaze does appear to start lingering a tad more attentively on Bran’s expression.

“Now that’s the really interesting part,” she responds eagerly. “Because, after I got over my shock at, well, at seeing _myself_ , this woman started talking to me. And it turned out that she wanted to know how I get my hair to look like this.” To demonstrate, she flicks her head round to display the intricate-looking series of braids and knots that adorned the back of her head. It was a style that, to the unobservant eye, might have looked simple enough to accomplish, given the extravagant ways that many of the noble ladies (and some gentlemen) wore their hair in Kirkwall, but despite Bran’s long association with such elite, including those of Orlais, he’d never actually seen another style quite like it. It was elegant but obviously designed far more for sturdy practicality than anything else because not once had he ever seen even a single hair from it come out of place, no matter how roughed up the rest of Champion’s appearance was (no doubt from the hands-on type of employment she tended to engage in).

Liking less and less the direction that the Champion’s ‘story’ seemed to be leading towards but refusing to allow such, as yet, unfounded concerns to cause any change in his demeanour, Bran continues listening with a resigned air of impatience as it is resumed.

“The thing is, though, that my mom was actually the one who came up with this design because when I was younger I was always complaining about how my hair would get in the way when I was practising with my daggers – naturally, my solution was to cut it all off, but mom didn’t think so much to that idea so instead she did this, and taught me how to do it. And d’ya know what? It still works just as well now as it did then.” Her subsequent smile is bright and perky.

Neither of which could describe Bran.

“How very pleasant for you,” he drawls. “I shall be sure to congratulate your mother on such a fine accomplishment the next time I see her.” He goes to move, now certain that he knew exactly why the Champion had sought him out and, whilst not embarrassed by such a revelation –as most likely she had planned– he was far from pleased about it.

As such, his tone is even more brusquely derisive than usual as he raises himself out of his chair in order to walk round the expansive desk. “But if you’ll do me the pleasure of leaving now, Champion,” he requests, “I do have a lot of work to get done.

He makes a sweeping motion with his arm towards the door (if only it was so easy to physically sweep her out of his office…) but his uninvited guest remains determinedly stationed where she was.

“Wait! You haven’t heard the best part, yet!” she exclaims in a stricken tone of voice.

He looks back at her wide, pseudo guileless eyes; his own narrowed with irritation as he breathes out a sigh.

“I’m sure I can well imagine it,” he replies, weary now of the obvious game she was playing.

“But don’t you want _me_ to tell you?” she challenges, plaintively, as if he was completely ruining a longed-for surprise.

Bran suppresses another sigh. This was the trouble with asking Lusine to track him down a… companion with a very specific type of look (or, at least, one that could be adjusted to have a specific type of look without too much effort). The Blooming Rose’s regular workers were all very well aware of Bran’s desire for privacy, but this new one (Sasha, he remembers her name as being) whilst very eager, was hardly what one could call bright. He had told her time and again after she began receiving him that she shouldn’t walk around whilst still looking like… how Bran requested she look.

It was just his luck that he’d happened to mention to her how she hadn’t been able to get the hair right – he’d even attempted to do the style himself one night, but had experienced no better success. Sasha had been disappointed (she really was so eager to please) but Bran had told her to forget the matter, resigning himself to the fact that he would never know what it felt like to wrench those tightly bound locks free from their confines in the heat of the moment.

With displeasure, his focus reverts back to his current situation – and the ultimate cause of his dilemma.

This woman, this Marian Hawke, had scraped her way into Kirkwall with nothing more than the clothes on her back and the quickness of her wit, yet somehow she’d managed to single-handedly inveigle her way into Kirkwall’s most influential people with barely anything more than the ability to choose very dubious looking friends and equally dubious looking work. Not only that but she’d managed to become the go-to personage to resolve anything from purse-snatching to citywide conflicts. She had become a staple of Kirkwall’s aristocracy as if it was something that simply _anyone_ could do if they just put their mind to it, and yet she continued to treat it as though it were all simply a pastime on her journey to… who even knew where.

As if all that wasn’t bad enough though, what vexed Bran himself was how her presence in the halls of the Viscount went against everything he believed in. It went against all the rules that he’d been subject to his entire life. It went against all cultural normality, all logical sense, all Maker-given reason…

And yet, what really vexed him did not have anything to do with any of these things.

No, what really vexed him –what really, truly _incensed_ him– was how the woman had managed to systematically crawl her way under his skin. And not just in a minor, inconvenient sense, as would befit some random interloper who turned up to make Bran’s life that bit more difficult, but in a way that buried itself so deep it was like a blighted disease, so much so that it was now _impossible_ to get her out of his mind.

For until she’d arrived, Bran had never been troubled by those amorous inclinations that people would witter on about as though they were the be all and end all of creation. And he’d been happy about such; the last thing he wanted was for something as inconsequential as infatuation, or whatever label people chose to place on it, to go about distracting him from what he deemed more important. Namely, work.

Oh certainly, there were some who’d no doubt gasp in abject horror at the very concept that he didn’t want to find himself drooling over some longed-for ‘mate’ to share his entire existence with. But Bran had remained satisfied (more than that even) with such an outlook, such a reality. It hadn’t bothered him in the slightest. Even his wife had felt the same way he did… right up until the point she’d decided she’d rather feel the same way with a bearded nug wrangler than with Bran himself, that is.

Still, that was neither here nor there.

What was here –right in front of him, as a matter of fact– was the living embodiment of a fixation that he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t asked for, and most definitely didn’t appreciate being shoved under his nose all manner of the day and night, as she waltzed back and forth to see her Guard-Captain friend or to see the Viscount or, maker forbid, to seek out Bran himself in order to while away numerous minutes of his precious time with inconsequential blather.

So yes, Bran had sort out company in order to slake these ill-fated desires, knowing full well that he would never be able to satisfy them any other way.

And now the very cause of all (or at least, quite a number of) his frustrations was standing in his office like she actually had a right to be there, as though she had a right to sashay in and taunt him with foolishly pointed insinuations just to see him squirm... Too bad for her that he’d never squirmed for anyone in his life.

And he most definitely _wasn’t_ about to start now.

Thus, with his mind as determined as it was unamused, he crosses his arms over his brocade doublet and stares her down, even stepping across the few feet that stood between them so that he was stationed directly in front of her.

He releases only the smallest of exhales before stating, in the smoothest of sardonic tones ever heard within his office (and that was saying something), “Very well, Champion. Why don’t you go ahead and enlighten me?”

Her eyes sparkle with almost palpable excitement. He knows she doesn’t view him as any kind of threat to her, least of all when she was festooned with daggers and throwing knives and whatever else she carried about her personage in order to traipse through the city’s shady underbelly with impunity. Hence she carries on to complete her recounting of his miscalculation with an all too entertained flourish.

“ _We-ell_ , in the end I told this woman that I would happily show her how to do her hair like mine – if she told me why she was clearly so eager to look exactly like me. Naturally, she was a bit reluctant to explain at first, but since I am one of the personable people around” –the mischievously saccharine grin that adorns her face as she voices this statement is wide enough to split it in two– “I managed to pry the information out of her in the end. And it turned out that what she actually wanted it for was for a client of hers. A very important client. A very influential client who,” she leans towards him conspiringly, “and believe me when I say _am_ quoting here – comes to her at least once a week in order to plow her so thoroughly into the mattress that it takes her a full day just to get her legs working properly again.”

Still highly involved in her telling, Hawke begins to circle around Bran, watching him keenly whilst his heavy-lidded eyes observe her.

“Not only that,” she continues merrily, “But apparently this guy’s so skilled, he doesn’t even start until he’s made her come at least half a dozen times – and that’s without even touching her! And then she said he doesn’t stop until her voice is hoarse from screaming his name.” Sparkling eyes peer at Bran with increasing anticipation.

Receiving no response other than apathy doesn’t dampen her enthusiasm one bit as she continues on regardless.

“Naturally, my mind was whirling with intrigue at just who this stallion-esque, lustful hunk of a stud-muffin could possibly be; who could possibly have such stamina, such commitment, such animalistic passion; all of which revolved around me of all people!” Her voice rises in intensity, the melodramatic exhilaration reaching fever-pitch as she continues breathlessly: “You can imagine my utter amazement, my wholehearted astonishment, my unconscionable disbelief when this mindboggling individual was finally revealed to be none other than…” The fervency abruptly disappears, to be replaced with a tone that was little more than a drawl, complete with the smarmiest of masochistic grins. “… _you_.”

Bran doesn’t even hesitate in providing a reply, as icily stoic as a mountaintop in winter.

“I’m sure you were rendered incontinent with shock.”

The dourness of his statement does cause a barking laugh of sincere amusement from his visitant, but she resumes control of herself quickly enough.

“Not quite,” she corrects, still with a hint of laughter dancing about her lips, unable to stop herself from further adding: “But it was a close call, I’ll give you that.”  

“I’m sure I can well imagine,” Bran remarks listlessly, before promptly following it up with the sharply pointed query of: “Now, are you quite finished, Messere Hawke?”

“Actually,” she chimes, reverting almost instantly back to delighted excitement, “No–”

“Well, then let me save you the trouble of having continue this charade,” he overrides firmly, his patience finally reaching its end.

The mischievous gaze turns surprised at his sudden interruption, followed almost immediately by intrigue at what he was possibly going to follow it up with.

Not wanting to disappoint, Bran once more strides across the distance between them –she having pranced away from him during her buoyant oration– so as to stand toe to toe with the insolent rogue, ensuring that his low but forcefully spoken words were delivered with utmost emphasis.

“Now I do believe it’s time for me to speak,” he states, his eyes holding hers with burning intensity. “And let me tell you something, little girl: Regardless of what unsavoury scandal you think you’ve found on me, or indeed what it is you think you’re going to do with such information, I can assure you, here and now, that it will do you no good whatsoever. And do you want to know why?” He lets the rhetorical question linger for just a heartbeat before providing the candidly direct answer. “Because you don’t get to keep my position for long if you scurry away at the first hint of indignity or embarrassment. I have long since made it my business to know far worse secrets about my peers than any I could possibly come up with myself, and that includes any… misspent sojourns to houses of ill-repute with which you have managed to become familiar with.”

He takes a breath before concluding with the most indisputable of statements.

“Ultimately, Champion, far more powerful individuals than you have endeavoured to take me down. And not one of them has managed to succeed. So, whatever it is that brought you here, whatever it is you seek to extract from me in exchange for your silence, is useless. I do not capitulate to the neurotic terms of little girls.”

In contrast to his counterpart, Bran’s speech ends with not one hint of dramatic flair or animation. Instead his demeanour carries nothing more than its natural arrogance mixed with the merest smidgeon of scorn, just to show how truly ineffectual he found the threat being put before him – and in such a time-wasting fashion too.

Nevertheless his words are a force in their own right. For if there was one thing in all the world that Bran was very, very good at, one particular trait of his that excelled above all others, it was his knack for making a speech that made the person he was speaking to sound like the most ineffectual dunderhead on the face of Thedas.

It was a skill that he saved only for those special, rare occasions when he really needed an edge. Or when he was really, really _annoyed_.

Like now.

Of course, what would usually happen when he summoned forth this talent from the very depths of his natural acerbity –indeed, what had happened every other time he’d utilised it– was that the person he was directing such a forceful sermon of stupidity to would start off all hot and bothered, but gradually, as his speech went on, their flustering protestations would be crushed under the weight of his relentless disdain, so that by the end, they were left with no other choice but to scuttle away with their figurative tail between their legs, resolving never again to darken the seneschal’s door with such idiocy…

…He really should have guessed that the Champion would spoil his perfect streak.

She didn’t scurry away.

She didn’t begin to stoop under the weight of his glare.

She didn’t deign to give even a single huff of flustered indignation.

No, all she did was stand there and stare right back at him, her face the picture of bored, but patient, serenity; as if she was utterly content to stand there all night and listen to him rail derisively at her.

It was only when he finally finished speaking and a stagnant silence had settled itself heavily around them that she reanimated herself. Not to snarl back at him though, as would have been Bran’s initial thought –she being the contrary creature that she was– but to lean towards him so that their relevant faces were even _closer_ than they were before. So close in fact that the less than diminutive space between wasn’t so much intimidating as… intimate.

And when she speaks, her voice does nothing to counteract such a supposition.

“Okay,” she murmurs, in what was probably the most mutedly smooth tone Bran had ever heard slide from her lips. “Now let me tell you something, Seneschal: It’s one thing for me to imagine getting down on my knees and sucking you off every time I see you just to find out whether that superior mug of yours can cater to any expression other than constipated contempt. It’s one thing for me to lie awake at night with my fingers shoved into my quim thinking about how your gorgeous eyes would look if they were watching me; or how it would feel if it were your cock filling me, stretching me” –her voice drops to little more than a lustful hiss– “ _possessing me_. It’s one thing for me to keep up the pretence of being remotely interested in the affairs of Kirkwall’s hoity-toity crowd just so I can lay eyes on you from across the room.”

She takes a deep, slow inhale, their positions so close now that Bran can feel the movement of warm air against his own lips. “It’s one thing for me to do all that,” she breathes, “But it’s quite another to find out that you’ve not only been employing someone to satisfy your needs but that you’ve actually been paying them to pretend to be me, to make themselves look exactly _like me_ …,” She leans in to relay the final part of her unbelievable confession with her lips barely a hairsbreadth away from his, “When if you’d just kissed me, you would’ve have seen that the very last thing you needed to do was _pay.for.it_.”

For the first time in, well, for as long as he could remember, Bran cannot think of a single thing to say…

Totally unable to fathom a single, possible response of any kind, all he can do is blink back at those dark green eyes now staring so steadily back at him, as open and sincere as any gaze could possibly be.

Only when she takes the opportunity to cross that invisible boundary and brush her lips against his frozen ones does his mind manage to jar back into some sort of gear, his head jerking back as a frown creases his forehead.

“Let me get this straight,” he says, stepping back and holding up his hands, the action followed almost immediately by the realisation that a surrendering gesture, even a spontaneous one, didn’t suit him at all – which he hastily rectifies by crossing his arms firmly over his chest (a stance he was much more familiar with). “You are saying that you: _you_ , the lauded Champion of Kirkwall are interested in…” He can’t even find the words to express it, so unfathomable did it seem to his ever-analytical mind.  

Instead, from beneath the deep furrows of his brow, he finds himself examining every tiny facet of the face in front of him, every minute trace just to try and locate the fallacy, the joke, the _trick_.

But not even he could truly believe Marian Hawke to be capable of such deceit, disguised under such sincerity. For there were many, _many_ terms that Bran could use to describe Kirkwall’s Champion, but the one thing he couldn’t her describe as, had never been able to describe her as, was cruel. Did she find it amusing to make people, particularly nobles, squirm uncomfortably? Yes. Did she like to make light of the numerous traditions and beliefs that the city thrived on, even though they tended to come across as somewhat bizarre to outsiders? Certainly. Did she gain satisfaction from witnessing pain in others or seeing them suffer, even if only emotionally? No. Not at all.   

As if to add confirmation to the already indisputable fact, Hawke’s next comment is spoken with the blunt candour that Bran had come to expect from her, albeit in a direction he wouldn’t ever have anticipated.

“Why do you think I’m traipsing through here all hours of the day and night?” she questions seriously, flicking her penetrating gaze over the drab walls that surrounded them before returning. “It certainly isn’t for the décor.”

The smallest of pauses goes by.

Then, without another word, Bran abruptly clamps his hands on her waist in order to sweep her up and deposit her, far from gently, in the middle of his desk, heedless to the myriad of papers squashed as a result.

For Hawke’s part, she appears taken aback by the sudden action, but the sparkle in her gaze reveals that she is far from displeased by it.

Planting his palms firmly on either side of her hips, Bran brings his stern face less than an inch away from her own.

“You… cannot possibly be serious,” he says to her, his eyes continuing to search her own, as if waiting for the fallacy to betray itself.

But all that shines back from them now is desire.

“Kiss me and find out,” she breathes lustfully, _challengingly_.

So he does.

He grabs the back of her head and practically crashes her mouth onto his.

The kiss is everything and nothing like he imagined; her lips soft but fierce, her taste a heady mixture of sweetened sharpness, her tongue strong and wild, fighting with as much passionate force as his was using to try and dominate.

It is, without doubt, one of the most exhilarating experiences of Bran’s life.

And it appeared that Hawke felt something similar, since she seems unable to stop herself from following him as he pulls himself back. He finds his inner nature gratified by such eagerness. More than that; he finds himself stirring, markedly quickly, beneath the fabric of his breeches.

But his voice remains as steady as he speaks with a determined air. “I feel I should warn you: I… am not a nice man.”

The quirk of her eyebrow relates total unsurprise at such a statement, along with the return of that customary wit. “Really?” she drawls. “And here I thought your genial, gallant demeanour was just some really elaborate ruse that you put on for the benefit of… absolutely no one.”

He responds to her insolence by jerking her body until the hardness now straining at his crotch is slammed against the centre of her thighs.

A choked moan springs from her throat even as willing hands leap to his shoulders, blunted fingernails digging themselves into the expensive material of his tunic, holding onto him she squirms wantonly.

“I will only say it one more time,” he grits, dangerously on the verge of losing himself to his body’s desires, but determined to warn her nonetheless of just what she was getting into. “I am not a nice man. Neither as an associate, as a friend, or as a lover.”

It was true: whilst Bran did had some good personality traits, albeit they were rather few and far between, they didn’t exactly outweigh the less-than-good ones; the ones that made him a very effective politician and tactician, but which didn’t really endear him to, well, most regular human beings, including those with whom he pursued intimacy. He felt behoved to make such a point clear before going any further.

“Seneschal Bran,” Hawke’s voice is the embodiment of belaboured patience. “Do you _really_ think that if I wanted a nice man that I would _ever_ have sought you out?”

He had to admit that it was a fair point. It wasn’t like he’d made any effort to recommend himself to the woman in front of him, or that she didn’t already know that he was anything other than what he was – namely: quite a bastard. Not only that but as she’d been talking she’d slid her fingers up to the back of his neck and was now playing with the strands of his hair in a most distractingly arousing way.

Before he can say anything further she speaks again, rubbing herself up against him as she lays nipping kisses to the column of his throat.

“Now,” she purrs, “Are you going to keep talking or are you going show me just what it is you’ve been keeping from me all this time?”

Bran decides that he _really_ doesn’t need to be asked twice…

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. It's official: I cannot write smut unless there's at least one chapter of detailed exposition beforehand. Curse you, muse! 
> 
> So don't be surprised if this fic gets added to later on down the line ;)


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